


Rejuvenescência

by laetificat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: The first notes of Lúcio and Baptiste's relationship.Set slightly ahead of current game continuity.





	Rejuvenescência

**Author's Note:**

> I can't resist two beautiful supportive men who just deserve some TLC, ok.
> 
> Hopefully this won't be Jossed too hard, pls Blizzard ; - ;

They meet for the first time among the rubble on the outskirts of Volgograd. 

It’s not the place anyone would look for Lúcio but he’s there anyway, mostly telling himself it’s a favor for Hanna and not because the weight of responsibility on his shoulders is still new enough to chafe, sometimes, in those first few minutes when he wakes up in penthouse apartments and five star hotels and listens to the quiet and thinks do I deserve this. 

So he’s there, even though he hates the cold, and at least it’s a good opportunity to test drive some improvements to his skates that -- in theory, so Hanna says -- should allow him to double his speed on half the energy output.

In theory.

Gunfire crackles across the ruined parts of the city, the sound of it chattering and bouncing through streets and crumpled buildings abandoned during the second Crisis, once a bustling metropolis now jagged snow-streaked markers of the extent and savage toll of the war. The goal of the mission is a cache of old dismantled warbots recently discovered by a work crew and dug out of the frozen earth still bristling with weaponry and technology, which of course pinged Talon’s radar as well as theirs, so it’s become a race, of sorts, through the ruins, trading bullets and the thud-thump of energy weapons. 

There’s nothing Lúcio loves more than a race -- well, except maybe a fresh set of decks and an excited crowd -- so he’s almost enjoying himself as he hops from building to building, his Sonic Amplifier humming on an electro-swing beat he’s been obsessed with for the last week or so and is thinking of sampling on his next album, leaping and slip-sliding down a wall, banking the turn and using the kinetic energy to propel him to the next rooftop, the next wall, picking up speed, singing under his breath, another turn and then --

The hard light of his skates cuts out suddenly, not even a flicker of warning, green one moment and gone the next so he hits the broken off top of the wall instead of floating across it, trying to correct mid-air with a wheel of his arms but doesn’t help so he goes down hard, hearing and feeling the crunch of expensive tech and a sudden shooting pain through his leg as he hits a slope of rubble and icy snow. He rolls, attempting to tuck his arms and head in, another crunch on his shoulder drives the wind out of his lungs and then he’s just skidding, throwing out fans of snow to either side until he hits another wall with a jarring impact and comes to a halt.

For a long minute or two he just lies there, glittering shards of snow falling down around him, staring up at the steel grey sky and trying to work out if he’s still alive. No. Yes. Yes, and as the pain roars into his limbs he wishes he wasn’t. He pulls in a shaking breath and coughs it out again, and spends the next few minutes gasping and groaning and scrabbling at the ground to try and get himself under a little cover in case the Talon snipers saw him fall. Pain rockets up his leg, heel to knee, and when he tries to stand it buckles and flares so bad that the world goes even whiter and he has to let himself fall back onto the ground or risk passing out.

After a little while he remembers his phone and fumbles in his pocket for it. Stares at it, unseeing, when he pulls it out, a maze of shattered glass and circuitry sticking out at odd angles. 

“Merda,” he croaks thinly. Then, with more feeling: “merda, shit, shit, fuck!” 

“You can say that again.” An unfamiliar voice from behind and above him. Lúcio twists around to face it despite the pain, half-numb fingers closing around his now useless Amplifier. The resonator on his back gives an unhappy moan of static. So much for that theory.

But someone must be looking out for him at least, because it's not a Talon agent standing in the rubble -- or, at least, not a current member of the roster. As part of his semi-induction into the Overwatch team he's been given certain levels of security clearance, certain files, and he recognises that face, the glitter of the visor.

“Baptiste,” he says, or tries to, but the word catches in his throat and he finishes it coughing instead, needles of pain digging into his chest.

Baptiste raises his eyebrows on hearing his name. His gun is slung across his back; he raises his hands to show he's otherwise unarmed and steps forward. 

“Bonjou. I'm glad you've heard of me. I think. I've heard of you. Or, I've heard you. Your music.”

Lúcio squints up at him. “You're.. a fan?”

Baptiste gives a shrug; moves another step closer. “Some of it.” His eyes track over Lúcio's body; a frown flickers across his face. He reaches up to tap his visor, adjusting something. “You're hurt.”

Lúcio can't deny that. He lowers the Amplifier, trying not to tremble too obviously. He feels cold, all over.

“Here.” In a single smooth motion Baptiste is kneeling by his side. He tugs something out of his belt and presses it onto Lúcio's chest. Lúcio drags his gaze down from tracing the line of Baptiste's jaw. It looks almost like a miniature version of his resonator, the center emitting a warm blue glow. Somehow it makes Lúcio feel warm as well, pain ebbing away, becoming someone else's problem. 

“Thanks,” Lúcio breathes, fighting back the urge to yawn. Lethargy chases the warmth spreading through his limbs. Baptiste leans closer; Lúcio realises he smells nice, sweet jasmine and patchouli.

“De rein. Your leg is broken,” Baptiste tells him, slipping a hand along Lúcio's side, seemingly searching for something. Lúcio feels heat blossom in its wake, this time not from the machine on his chest. “Two ribs on this side are also broken, one on the other.”

Lúcio blinks sleepily. He tries to lift his hand, but it isn’t listening to him any more. “That’s.. that’s great..” 

His vision swims; he doesn’t realise Baptiste has put his arms underneath him until he feels himself lifted off of the cold ground, held close against something solid and warm. He realises, distantly, that he’s moving, being carried, Baptiste’s long stride a gentle percussion. 

“Time for someone to help you for once, little frog. Let’s see if we can find your friends.”


End file.
